(This is a series of six weekly emails I wrote in 2022 while walking the 700+km of the Camino de Santiago. I was on sabbatical and had time to think, to walk, to write, and to drink).
To my nearest and dearest,
Week 2 has been eventful. Kübler-Ross didn’t adapt her stages to the Camino, but if she did, Stage 2 would be “Unwelcome realizations”.
My actual Achilles heel is proving true to its name and refuses to work if inside a proper shoe. This has brought everything to a halt. I’ll get back to my numerous experiences with the La Riojan world of physical therapy and podiatry, but first to more important things: wine.
The wine in Logroño is amazing. It doesn’t matter what you order, and in any event it’s very much hit and miss with any of my attempts at ordering in Spanglish. Thankfully whatever they bring is delicious. It’s on my to-do list to find some Crianza Tempranillo when back in SA. I’m writing this on Friday just before siesta starts, sitting in front of a huge 16th-century cathedral. It is my fourth day here in Logroño. I have a strapped ankle, some prescription ibuprofen, and am just starting my fourth glass of vino tinto (surprisingly €1.60 a glass). A small horde of about 200 preschool children have just walked past on what can only be a school tour. Their handlers seem surprisingly joyful and relaxed given their rambunctious charges, and they wave as they walk past saying “Buen camino!” With the children’s cacophonous chattering now gone, everything settles back to slow-strolling passers-by and everyone day-drinking in the sun.
It seems that in Logroño (Spain’s Stellenbosch) drinking wine at all hours of the day is patriotic rather than problematic. Yesterday morning a respectable 60-year-old woman came into the cafe to join her friends for pastries circa 10am and proceeded to order a glass of red wine. C’est la vie.
Logroño is the capital of La Rioja, a small province in northern Spain known for food (pintxos) and wine (Tempranillo), but it is also a decent-sized town with nice bookstores and dainty streets. In a large and conscientiously stocked bookstore there was only one small shelf with about 10 English books, but one of them was Galgut’s The Promise. I like to think it is Cape Town’s way of following up on me wherever I go.
Walking around Logroño I saw an advertisement for the “vino camino” and thought what a clever idea that was. On the Camino you get a stamp in a pilgrim’s passport for each town you stay in and each church or site you visit, filling it up as you go. (For some pilgrims these stamps are quite important, but it seems rather like Disneyland to me.) Presumably on the vino camino it’s one big wine farm tour, acquiring stamps and smiles as you go. A cultured version of the Franschhoek wine tram?
Logroño is neither big nor small, it’s maybe as big as the nice parts of Cape Town; the Goldilocks zone for towns and cities. When I realized I’d have to spend a few days’ rest somewhere and figure out what to do next, I was glad it was Logroño, because the next town is so rural that judging by the map it doesn’t even have a stop street, although it does have a church. Spanish priorities.
A few days before I got to Logroño my Achilles started hurting and I ended up limping the last 10km from Sansol. Reality has a persistent way of quietly insisting that it be acknowledged, even if it isn’t welcomed. I really didn’t want a sore foot because of what it meant. Principally, slowing down and resting, which meant decoupling from a group I enjoyed hanging out with and who also, helpfully, managed all my admin. This is an added advantage when booking albergues is necessary due to limited availability. However, when you’re hobbling along and see German parents pushing their Thule pram and 8-month-old passenger all gliding past you, it’s difficult to stay wedded to an illusion.
So I wished my new friends well as they continued on the next day, and tapped out of albergue life, checking in to an Airbnb. My tolerance for all things basic and rough asymptotes to zero almost immediately if I’m sick or injured. I saw the metaphorical “In-Case-of-Emergency-Break-Glass” sign and proceeded to break it good and proper. Entering the local Carrefour in search of English ingredients I said a prayer of thanks to the EU and globalization. A bottle of Crianza, a jar of Nutella, microwave popcorn, grapefruit juice, Oreos, eggs and two baguettes. I was ready for a cathartic Bon Iver cry.
When I got to the Airbnb even the shower was not cooperating, overflowing into the bathroom because it drained too slowly. I was a bit anxious because I wanted to keep showering, but the tide was coming in on the bathroom floor and I was making it so. At this point I thought to myself that this was actually not my problem and proceeded unabated. Not my circus, not my monkeys. In any event I had too much on my plate to be giving constructive feedback to an Airbnb host, or to limit my showering because of Spanish plumbing.
After my shower I made peace with the fact that I had come on the Camino for time and space to think and reflect, not a Spanish version of an American road trip. The reframing helped a lot and made everything less stressful. Healing seems to work better when it isn’t on a schedule.
I also read three quotes I brought with me, reminding me that my existential loneliness will not be cured or caused by the presence or absence of others.
“We live as we dream, alone.”
— Joseph Conrad
“Relinquishing the expectation of rescue by the Other is one of the most difficult projects of our lives.”
— James Hollis
“Paddle your own canoe.”
— proverb
So began my time in Logroño. It was a bit strange being back in a big city after a week (that felt like a month) on countryside paths and through forests. I was only a little nostalgic for the quiet countryside but by and large thankful for all the amenities and culture that civilization brings. One thing I am not is overly sentimental about pre-modern life.
I booked a “physio” appointment. He turned out to be an osteopath who gave me the best massage I have ever had (sans buen finale, for those wondering). It seemed like a good idea to go again the next day, so I did. However, this osteopath knew less English than a brick and paid no attention to any of my gesticulations trying to draw his attention to my ankle. He just kept saying “one problem, no!” (pointing to my ankle). “Two problems!” (pointing to my back). “Two problems!” (pointing to my hips). “Two problems!” (pointing to my thighs). “Two problems!” (pointing to my calves). He would have gone on with the anatomy lesson had I not stopped him. Apparently the source of all life’s problems and solutions was the spine, and so everything else was irrelevant. I had at least two problems and, while lying there, I hoped and prayed that his persistent prodding and pushing wouldn’t turn two into three.
The next day I set off for Ventosa hoping everything had healed and that my spinal realignment would start yielding existential dividends. Alas. Never mind the first kilometre, the first 20m were painful. I ended up unpacking my bag in the public colonnade as I took off my two pairs of socks and switched from my Salomons to Crocs. It felt a lot better. I walked for 5km in my crocs and then switched back to shoes, thinking that my Achilles was now warm and Crocs were probably not the best thing to be walking long distances in. Instantly painful.
At this point I decided to avoid a repeat experience of being overtaken by the pram, switched back to crocs and retreated to Logroño. Little did I know that going “backwards” on the Camino is an experience in itself, prompting locals to point and “help” by explaining in Spanish that you’re going the wrong way. I then point to my ankle and limp more obviously, and only then do they relent. It is also quite endearing that the Spanish do not care that you don’t speak their language and refuse to even attempt some middle ground, waiters least of all. It is as if with more Spanish, and more detailed Spanish, and possibly louder Spanish, you will understand. It’s like grade repetition in no-fee schools in South Africa; same shit, different year, with no remediation. What Elmore calls the “slower and louder” approach. Then again I empathize with the waiters, because someone is going to be on the back foot stumbling along in a language they’re not fluent in, and it may as well be the foreigners.
The only consolation to me retreating back along the Camino path was watching the slow doubt and uncertainty grow in the faces of fellow pilgrims as they walked past me, wondering if it was me or them who were going the wrong way.
Once back in Logroño I checked into a new Airbnb, this time with a view of the cathedral. Fearing I would end up with a pediatrician rather than a podiatrist, I enlisted the help of my Spanish Airbnb host, who booked an appointment for the next morning. Carmen, the podiatrist, also spoke no English, so we both turned to Google Translate and had a consultation holding up our respective phones, followed by “si, si” or “no, no” or some version of “hmmm”, and then another round of questions and explanations on Google Translate. Often both holding up our phones at the same time so the other could read, and laughing when we had asked or answered the same question simultaneously. She quickly diagnosed that the problem was that my ‘blue shoes’ (Salomons) were irritating the base of my Achilles tendon, which is why they were painful when put on.
She gave me laser treatment for the inflammation, strapped my ankle, gave me pads for the shoes and a prescription for ibuprofen (600mg). She also gave me her half-used tube of arnica gel as a parting gift. Even with a mask on and a language barrier, I could tell she was a very kind person. We didn’t need Google Translate for that.
Believing my Camino to be somewhat back on track, I went out and bought walking poles to give my ankle the best chance to heal, crocs and all.
It’s now Sunday and I am sitting in a little garden in Villafranca Montes de Oca. It is of the church-but-no-stop-street variety in terms of size, but the albergue is very nice (it’s also a hotel). My heel feels fine when walking on the flat and in crocs, and I only attempted 10km today, avoiding the small mountain between myself and the start of the meseta. The meseta (flat desert) is starting soon so I think I will continue and see how it goes. The cosmopolitan multiculturalism has given way to waves of monolithic Europeans. Depending on which day you set out and how quickly you walk, you get the Germans or the Italians, with Americans and Brits sprinkled in for flavour.
There are some truly bizarre experiences, and I see it as a good sign that I still have a sense of humour when trying to sleep amidst the snoring. Just last night the Dutch couple spent about 20 minutes in the albergue room quietly trying to find a source of oxygen by prodding windows and doors. “Just a little oxygen. We do need to breathe, you know,” she says, smiling at the fat, unsmiling German watching her. Or Stefan (the German ‘mindfulness photographer’) inviting the American woman to a Reiki session by the pool, her husband politely declining and proceeding to check albergue availability while Sheryl received Stefan’s healing hands. “I could really feel the heat.” Stefan has other talents — he has already found a German “friend”, Jana, who does marketing for optometrists. It would seem she is getting the full Camino experience.
Thinking back on the experience in Logroño, I liked the blend of ancient and modern. I suspect that pilgrims of old did not get laser therapy when they got tendonitis, but also, here we are: a global collection of post-modern pilgrims walking along an age-old route, getting stamps from churches as we go. Going in to see Carmen I was sure the problem would terminate my walk and was already planning alternatives — a reading retreat on the coast of Spain? Visiting friends in Barcelona? The Camino isn’t really the Camino if you can’t walk, it’s just a low-budget, highly-trafficked holiday route. But having tried rest, an osteopath’s existential realignment (twice) and copious amounts of wine, I will set off again tomorrow and keep walking, albeit in crocs.
Kyk noord and fok voord.
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Hugs to all!
Nic
Nic Spaull 